


Five Christmases Mrs Hughes Hasn't Had and One She Has

by lindsey_grissom



Series: Five Names 'Verse [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:06:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another glimpse into the lives Mrs Hughes could have had, this time with visits to Christmases past, present and future. (Sequel to Five Names)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nanny

**Author's Note:**

> The 'names' will be the same as in the previous story and capture a glimpse of a Christmas either past, present or future from where Five Names left of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is definitely in the future; you'll know when.

Winter has fully set in by the time Christmas rolls around. She loves this time of year, when the leaves crunch beneath her feet, ice glitters on rooftops, frost in windows and the whole city seems alive with hope and goodwill. She isn't by nature a sentimental woman, but there is something about Winter, and December especially that fills her with warmth for her fellow man. All of them, even that impertinent wisp of a footman Gerald.

She takes her meals with the children as always, but often times she is invited down to the servant's hall for a cup of tea and a slice of cake or gingerbread. It seems that everyone is affected by the Season and she has found that to be mostly the same in all the houses she has worked.

This year she makes an effort to accept the Housekeeper's invitations, whenever they're offered; they are all aware that this will be her last Christmas here, with Master Michael going off to school in the New Year.

She hasn't made many friends downstairs, it's hard to when everyone knows you are only to be around for a few years while the Family's children grow, but the servants have all been kind to her. Such a small thing, really, but she knows enough to be thankful for it.

{She has sent her letters out for a new position, answered a few advertisements and has an interview on the 5th for a family over in Kensington. She is not worried; this life is familiar to her now, the constant moving around. She has impressive references from all of her employers and she flatters herself, perhaps, but she has it on good, reliable authority that her reputation is well-known. She will find something suitable in time.}

It is a white Christmas this year, the snow coming down only the afternoon before and not stopping until the grounds were covered in a thick white sheet.

As she looks out of the Nursery window she thinks of the children she has cared for before, remembers their excitement when they saw their first snowflakes. A smile settles on her face, a little sad perhaps but still grateful that she was able to experience it with them all.

Fingers pressed to the frosted glass, she sends a quick prayer out for them all, thanks the Lord that they all survived the terrible war, that they are growing and marrying now, having children of their own.

"Nanny Hughes?"

She starts at the soft voice, turns to smile at Molly. Such a timid little thing, but as good a maid as she has ever seen.

"I'll be out in a moment, Molly and then you can dust in here."

She gathers together young Michael's dinner clothes, ready for when he returns from his afternoon walk with his parents.

"No I mean, thank you Nanny, but that's not why I came. There's a call for you, on the telephone. Mr Bailey sent me up."

She can't help the way her heart jumps, but she _can_ fight the smile that wants to pull at her lips. She has been waiting for this call all day, all week really, since he mentioned it in his last letter.

{Charles Carson was not an original fan of the telephone, but since they began speaking to each other once a month outside of the Season, he has rather changed his mind on it. It is her intention to have him accept the usefulness of the electric toaster by the Summer.}

She hurries down to the Butler's pantry, Michael's coat and shoes in hand and tries to keep her face impassive, it won't do for anyone to suspect how much she enjoys hearing his voice like this.

There is something so much more immediate about talking over the telephone, a sense of him being only a wire away, almost in the room with her, that she doesn't get from a letter.

The Butler hands her the receiver and leaves, shutting the door behind him, a sign of respect and trust that she appreciates. She drops Master Michael's things onto the armchair and finally seats herself at the desk.

"Mr Carson?"

"Ah, Miss Hughes, Merry Christmas."

 _It is now_ , she thinks and says; "Merry Christmas, Mr Carson."

"I hope the day has seen you well, Miss Hughes?"

"It has, Mr Carson, very much so. And your own day? Would I be right in assuming by your tone that it has been a good one?"

He sounds happy, a grumbly joyful tone slipping into his voice. She hears the clink of glass on wood and bites her lip to hide a smile he can't see anyway; he has started on the port a little earlier tonight, the Crawley's must be out for the evening.

"I have few complaints, Miss Hughes, about the day or the servants' performance throughout it."

He sounds proud, the servants' performance a good reflection on him. She is pleased for him; these past few years have seemed hard at the Abbey, too much sadness it seems, another crisis arising with each letter she receives from him.

"Then I'm glad for you Mr Carson."

She asks then about his Lady Mary, how she is coping with a young bairn and her husband so suddenly gone, how darling Miss Sybbie is.

He coughs awkwardly through the telephone and she imagines him straightening his jacket, an action she has seen many times over the years when he is unsure of how his next words will be received.

"Before I talk of the children, a question if I may Miss Hughes?"

She rolls her eyes, ridiculous man, he always goes so formal when he feels unsteady.

"Of course, Mr Carson."

She finds her heart is beating hard in her chest for no reason at all.

"Last week, you mentioned that you had still not accepted a new position, has that changed?"

She frowns, she can feel her pulse in her neck and she squeezes the receiver tightly. She wonders if he can really be going with this where she thinks.

"No, I have an interview a week or so away and an offer or two already, but nothing I've agreed to."

"Good, good. I mean, that's...right."

Her eyebrow rises, a smile slowly creeping across her lips.

"Mr Carson-" she starts into the silence that follows.

"Lady Mary would like to meet you."

She swallows her words suddenly, chokes a little and coughs. "I'm sorry, Mr Carson?" She asks when she has recovered.

"Lady Mary, she wishes to meet you."

"I don't...Charles-"

"There was a problem with the Nanny, you see and Her Ladyship sent her away. I spoke to Lady Mary and she was worried about finding a new Nanny at such short notice and I mentioned you..."

"And she wants to meet with me before making a decision?"

"Yes. Although I assure you, Miss Hughes, it is simply a matter of routine, caution after the last experience. She has heard of you, of course and I have told her my own observations."

She has nothing to worry over there, he has always been her most staunchest supporter.

She has not accepted a job outside of London for over twenty years and it would be quite a change to move away now, to Yorkshire no less, where she has never been. Away from all the familiar people and places. Well, except for one particular person of course.

And in truth she has met many of the staff and has always enjoyed when Mrs Patmore accompanies Mr Carson to the Park on occasion. He has described Downton so well and so often that she feels as though she knows it well already. So perhaps it will not be so unfamiliar after all.

"When does Lady Mary have in mind for this _'routine'_ interview, Mr Carson?"

She can practically hear the relief in his voice. "The fifth, Miss Hughes. You could come up on the 12 o'clock from Paddington."

She smiles, she hadn't really wanted to live in Kensington anyway.

"I shall be there, Mr Carson, you may tell your Lady Mary that."


	2. Lady Elizabeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set a few years before Five Names, and hopefully shows the start of Lady Elizabeth's fascination with Mr Carson, and how the book exchange began.

The lights of the ballroom sparkle around her as she spins, catch her eye in bright lines of colour.

She adores Christmases spent at Downton. Loves the pageantry, the splendour. The festive spirit that seems almost to infuse the entire Abbey, from the youngest Hallboy to even Violet - who she has seen smile no less than four times since the music began playing.

But it is this, the annual Servants' ball a few weeks after Christmas, that she enjoys the most; secretly and never spoken aloud.

{And it isn't restricted solely to Downton; she rather prefers her own Servants' Christmas celebration over the lavish parties and five course dinners she is invited to this time of year.}

The smiles are wider, the laughter more genuine. There is as great a blurring between the lines that separate them all as it's possible to have and somehow, she finds the dancing to be even more exciting than anywhere else.

"Had you any plans for Christmas, Mr Carson?" She asks as they spin, his hand is carefully placed at her waist, the other holds tight to her own. He is a wonderful dancer, makes her seem as graceful as she used to feel in her youth.

"I was here, milady. Mrs White and Mr Barrow were away for the day."

"And you were left to pick up the slack?" He raises an eyebrow, and she can hear the _'you've been in America too long, milady'_ that he doesn't say. {She is finding that time spent with the Butler has her imagining all manner of his secret thoughts, she has not yet allowed herself to consider any meaning behind that.} "That hardly seems fair to you."

He smiles, tilts his head. He will not argue with her, but too, he cannot say a word that might be heard as a complaint. He is always the Butler, she knows; he might, just yesterday, have brought that second cup out, quite surprising her after his firm insistence at her last visit that he could not and would never take tea with her.

Perhaps her words to him then, when he had enquired as to her why she continued to ask for his company, had had some affect on him after all.

She hopes he does not pity her; but then how could he, when he sees everything around her that she does have, in abundance? Perhaps the gesture was one of kindness, or as she fears is truly the case, he was simply doing his duty, making her time at the Abbey more comfortable.

{After all, he might have brought the cup, might have watched as she filled it with tea, but he did not drink it.}

"You worked last Christmas, I remember." She says because she does remember, having spent the entire season in Downton with Violet, but more, she does not want to fall back into silence with him. Dancing as they are is likely to be the last opportunity she'll have this visit to talk to him alone. In truth, she wants to ask him what he thinks of the stories she has seen in the papers recently; if this ' _Titanic_ ' could possibly be as unsinkable as they say it will be, if he is concerned by the rumblings from the continent, unrest among the people and governments.

She wants to talk to him of the shows she saw just a month ago in New York, of the orchestra tickets she has for a concert in Paris next May.

She has tried to talk to Violet, to Cora. To Robert even, and has been dismissed as over thinking things. {Violet went so far as to claim that her loneliness was making her bold and un-womanly; had used Martha Levinson as an insult against her.}

These are the things she spoke to George about, God rest him. {Theirs may not have been a great love affair, but he had spoken to her, they had discussions, he had been interested in her thoughts.}. She misses that now, now that she finds again how little the world truly values her voice and opinions. She suspects, however, that Mr Carson would not feel that way. There is something, perhaps in the respect he has for Violet, his obvious care for Mary, even the deference he pays to Mrs White when the Housekeeper has something to say, that makes her think a discussion with him would truly be _that._ That he would not simply smile, nod and agree with her, before turning away.

"I did, milady and the year before." She had not visited then, had been with Lord Hawthorn in London, sitting by his bedside at the hospital.

She isn't sure now, what to say. She does not actually know Mr Carson; she is a regular guest at the house, more so this past year, but she spends her time, rightly, walking the grounds with Cora, taking tea and listening to Violet gossip at the Dower House, talking with the girls when they have a moment to spare her {they are growing so fast, Sybil ready to be presented now, the last of them grown up and out in their part of the world}.

She has spent very little time in Mr Carson's company, but the little she has she treasures. His quiet presence brings a calm to her life that she did not realise she required. She knows that he is well-read, from things both Violet and Mary have said if him, and she sees the way his expressions change during conversations; he has opinions on everything, but he knows his place well enough not to voice them, not even, she suspects, if he is asked; not if they go against his employers. She imagines they might have quite entertaining discussions, if they could.

Why can they not? They are both people after all, and he does not work for her. The song is winding down, she will have no other chance and if he thinks her bold, improper, well she will not see him again for some time. {She cannot say that his opinion will not matter to her, after all, that is what she wants from him. A true opinion on something.}

"Have you ever read Shelley's first novel, Mr Carson?"

"I assume you do not mean the poet, Shelley, milady." In another life she might have rolled her eyes at his tone; she can tell already how he feels about the book, about her tastes too, no doubt. "I can't say that I've read the Modern Prometheus, no."

"You might like it." She quips, fighting a smile. He won't, she is sure of that now.

"I think not, milady." He says as the band finishes, the last chime of a triangle ending the song. His tone is bland, empty, telling her far more than she believes he would wish.

He releases her, steps back and bows. She curtsey's a little, ignoring Violet's scowl from across the room.

She meets his eye, no less fascinated by him than she was before. She wants to know more - has he read other, similar works? Is that why he so dislikes the idea of Shelley's Frankenstein? Or is it something more, a childhood memory of ghost stories that has put him off the idea? _What was his childhood like, why did he choose to go into service, where did he work before Downton?_ \- but is aware that she likely never will, not much more at least.

"Perhaps next time I'm here, you can tell me what literature is more to your tastes, Mr Carson?" She should step away, the next song will start soon and she cannot be seen as showing too much interest, academic though it may be.

She has turned, begun to make her way to Rosamund who looks rather bored sitting beside Lord Murray, when she catches his voice as he too turns away.

"Nothing quite so gothic, milady, I'm sure you wouldn't like it at all."

She does not look back, but she allows the smile to settle on her lips.

"Ah, Elizabeth, I was just telling young Rosamund here about my dear old Farely. You remember him, don't you? Such a strong specimen and faster than ten mares at pulling a carriage."

"Yes, Uncle Murray. He had a great temperament too."

Her thoughts stray as Murray continues, to the novels she has read most recently. She wonders how Mr Carson might react to those? She smiles again. She'll be back this way in June, she'll be sure to arrive early, bring a book to fill the time.


	3. Beth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set two Christmases on from the Beth chapter of Five Names.

She watches him from the doorway, leaning against the frame, fingers still curled around a tea cloth.

He has Charlie in the crook of one elbow, Bethany in the other, his head dipped down while he whispers into their sleeping ears. Last year the season had been shadowed; Jamie still away fighting and their darling girl trying so hard to stay strong, two new babies to care for and a husband who had not even seen them.

They have tried, this year, to make it twice as special. Charles insisted the whole family be together today, taking as much time away from the Abbey as he could; she isn't sure who was left to take over for him, doesn't honestly care, not when her family has been together for the first time in too many years - not even on Jamie's return had Maisie made it down to them.

The dinner has been cooked, eaten and enjoyed, the presents opened and carols sung. Her children {the ones born to her, and the one who married into her heart just the same} are all settled around the fire in the sitting room, glasses of sherry and hot mulled wine passed out and half drunk. Only one man and two little angels are missing and she really hadn't needed to look far for them.

Charles shifts in his seat, tips his body so that each child could see the tree, if they hadn't fallen asleep on him some time ago. Still, he tilts them towards the tree she insists each year that he put up in his study, and names each decoration in turn; the stars and cherubs, the little glass sleigh that is this year's addition, the dark haired angel that was last year's.

With his voice pitched low he tells their grandchildren the story behind each one, which member of the Crawley family gifted them, what they mean {she remembers the stories well, smiles even as she rolls her eyes at him; he is so proud of the Family, of the young Ladies that slipped into his heart all too easily. She supposes she could have been jealous, could have been angered that he would devote even a portion of honest devotion to these people; his _employers_ and perhaps once she was, but then he came home with the first decoration cradled carefully in his hands, a paper snowflake little Miss Mary had made him and she couldn't bring herself to resent the happiness in his eyes, not when he placed Maisie's paper stocking on the tree and Miss Mary's snowflake hung from a shelf alone in his study. A few years - and several more decorations - later, she put the tree up in his study before he returned home one evening. The smile on his face had her heart beating hard in her chest, her blood tingling as it raced through her. It had been a good evening, a great night.}

He looks at her when he gets to the last decoration, his voice fading down to nothing.

"They haven't heard a word you've said, Charles."

He smiles at her, then back down at the babies. "They have." He says, and she pushes away from the doorframe, steps up close to take Charlie from him. The little boy smiles in his sleep, hardly stirs as she reaches out and lifts him into her arms.

He smells of talcum powder and cinnamon, the spices in the house seeping into his hair.

Charles lays Bethany into the crib beside his desk and then takes Charlie back, settles him beside his sister and tucks them in close.

She remembers this Charles so fondly, the one who told their daughters stories each night, who never failed to be there at bedtime, even though it meant returning to the House after. The father who would tuck them each in with a kiss on their forehead, leave a candle burning in their rooms that he blew out when he returned later in the night, before climbing into bed beside her.

She leans into him when he steps back, his arm wrapping around her waist and drawing her closer to his side. "You're a good grandfather, Charlie." She whispers, feels her eyes tearing up as she looks down at what their daughter made.

" _Grandfather_. Where have the years gone, Beth?"

He doesn't whisper, her husband, his voice too deep, too strong, but he lowers it as much as possible. She turns in his arms, feels his hands come to rest against her back as she curls into him, her ear against his chest. She can see the window like this, the snow piling up on the sill outside. She watches a flake melt against the glass, wonders at it's shape; unique in all the world and gone in an instant.

Some days she feels as young as she was when they met, sometimes when she spins about the house or he pulls her close in bed, wraps her up in his arms she feels like no time has passed at all. But then she will see the grey creeping into her hair, her knees will click and crack when she kneels for too long or she'll look at her baby, their Katherine; a wife and mother herself now and she remembers every year, every decade of her life, their lives.

"Are you calling me old Charles Carson?" She pokes his side with a finger, hides her smile in his coat. The white beard he's wearing tickles her neck as he leans down over her, presses his lips to her head.

"Never." He clasps her by the waist and pushes her away, looks down at her and she smiles up at him, in his red coat and hat. "You haven't aged a day since we met." He can't keep his face straight, the daft man.

"You're a hopeless liar, Charles." She reaches for the beard, twirls it around her finger; coarse and catching at the little nicks in her skin. "But then you aren't looking so young yourself I'm afraid."

"I'll show you young." She can't help the shriek as he lifts her, sweeps her around and drops them both down into his arm chair. A quick look to the crib assures her they haven't woken the children and she shifts around on his lap, hooks her knees over his thighs.

A hand circles her waist again, the other strokes his beard as he watches her.

"And what would you like for Christmas, young lady?" She laughs, giggles before catching herself. {He has always made her laugh, even as a chorus girl when there was little enough in her life to smile about. He makes her happy every day, no matter that things might be at their worst; she fell in love with him for it. For that, and a hundred other ways that he makes her feel complete in a way that she never could before he came along. She cannot imagine how different she might be without him here like this.}

"Oh, a gentleman, please Father Christmas. Tall and handsome, with strong arms and a voice so low it rumbles when he sings."

He smiles, leans in for a kiss. She brings a finger up between them, pretends to think. "And young," she adds, "very young."

He growls, she feels it travel through them both, and clutches her close. "You're a naughty girl Beth Hughes, a naughty naughty girl."

"But you'll love me anyway?"

"What would your husband think?" She winds her arms around his neck, links her fingers behind his head. The others will wonder where they are soon, but she doesn't mind; it won't be the first time her girls have walked in on them like this.

"Since he just put me back to my maiden name, I don't think he'll mind at all. He's very understanding."

"Not that understanding." He disagrees and his lips touch hers, she leans up into the kiss, pushes harder, deepens it.

"Merry Christmas, Charlie." She says when they separate, his mouth trailing down her jaw to her neck. She tips her head back, curls a hand into his hair.

"Merry Christmas, Beth." He sucks at her collarbone and her blood pounds inside her veins. He pulls away eventually, presses a soothing kiss to her reddening skin.

They'll go back to the sitting room soon, she'll heat more wine and they'll watch the lights twinkling, later she'll make sandwiches for supper and they'll tell stories of the Christmas Maisie tried to help with the cooking, filled the goose with chocolate when Beth wasn't looking and they had to make do with only a few slices and cold cuts for dinner. Or the year that Katie was so determined to meet Father Christmas she set up wire about the sitting room and her poor father tripped no less than four times trying to slip the presents beneath the tree, while Katie slept on in her bed, too tired to stay awake after all.

She leans back into his chest and his hands meet across her stomach, his chin resting atop her head.

Little Bethany turns over in her sleep, curls into her brother's side with a sigh, her tiny hand fisted over his heart.

Charles's arms squeeze her once and she drops her hands over his, tangles their fingers together.

"Thank you." He says suddenly and she thinks she understands, might have said it herself in a moment or two. She raises their hands to her lips, kisses the knuckle of his ring finger, the band skin-warm against her mouth. Dropping their hands back down she smiles and breathes deep; cinnamon and ginger, and that little something Charles Carson that never fails to excite her.

They'll tell stories, yes and then she'll send the young ones to bed, slip into her latest purchase from Ripon. Be the naughtiest Mrs Christmas that Charles deserves.


	4. Mrs Burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going only a year after the previous Mrs Burns segment and we see a glimpse of how she and Mr Carson have carried on.

With a sharp flick of her wrist she sprinkles the last of the salt across the bird's back. A quick look at the clock above the door reminds her that she really doesn't have much time if she wants to be eating the thing before midnight.

Goose now in the oven, she scrubs her hands and sets to work on the potatoes. It was a good harvest this year and they're big and bulbous, a nice pale colour that crunches satisfyingly as her knife slices through.

She hums as she works, keeps an eye on the time, when her gaze isn't drawn to the little window overlooking the back fields. She thinks they'll have snow soon, perhaps not today but certainly by tomorrow. The thought makes her smile.

The animals have all been secured, the barn locked up tight {every time she closes those doors now, she takes a good look around first, searches out tall dark shadows hiding by the hay. She finds none, of course; he writes now to tell of when he is due to arrive and so she makes sure the farmhouse door is left open to him, a fire lit in the parlour} and besides the late afternoon feeding and milking, she can push everything about the farm from her mind for the day.

Potatoes cut and soaking, she takes a minute, leaning against the sideboard to properly look out the window. If she stretches right over, hands braced against the windowsill, she can just see the bend in the lane before it winds its way closer to her drive.

She can't see him there, but then, even putting aside how unlikely it would be to look out at the same moment he walked that small bit of path, the train isn't due in for another hour and it's at least a further twenty minutes from the station to here {thirty for Mr Charles Carson, who found her farm that stormy night quite by chance but seems always to take a wrong turn somewhere when he comes by with intent}.

Settling back on her heels she pushes away from the sideboard, brushes her hands down her apron.

She should set the table, that will give her something else to think about for a while. He is very particular about the table settings, although he does try hard not to show it. Only, his face is particularly readable, most of his emotions and thoughts quite clear in his expression. Fortunately, she is very aware of her limits in this particular area and so she has avoided taking offence. Today however, she wants things to be perfect.

She has only known him a little over a year, but she understands that it is a rare thing for him to take time away from the House and the Granthams. And to do so at Christmas, well, she is flattered that he accepted her invitation. Flattered and not a little overwhelmed. It has been quite a time since Christmas dinner was anything more than one of the dreadful chickens, plucked and roasted with a few vegetables scattered about it. She loves Christmas of course, but without Joe it seemed silly to go to too much trouble just for herself. None of the farmhands stay for the day, certainly not for the dinner, not when they have their own families to return to. Having Mr Carson here today is to be a very welcome change.

{He had been waxing quite nostalgically about the last time he spent any of the festive season away from the House and she had mentioned that he could always join her this year if he fancied and once the shock had gone from his face - something she inspires in him a lot, it seems. She should perhaps tone her teasing down a little in the New Year - he had accepted most graciously and she had been unsettled by the soft smile that remained on his face the rest of their afternoon together.}

So she had rallied. Had negotiated with old Mr Collins down the way for one of his rather sought after geese {a bottle of her country's finest seems a small price to pay when she knows that goose is Mr Carson's favourite}, had made sure to bring in Jane to give the house a proper going over - she could have done it herself, but the girl needs the money now with her ma so sick and besides, Christmas is a busy time; she has spent most of the past month churning butter from milk and brandy for the village's Christmas puddings and that's nothing to how many chickens she has sold and plucked.

And she had thought long and hard over his gift. He is not like Joe, would not appreciate a new pair of socks and tobacco for his pipe {Mr Carson does not smoke and while she has no doubt that he needs socks like any man, he does not seem the type to wear his thin enough to hole and no doubt already has many pristine pairs tucked in his drawers} and so she had listened ever more carefully to his words of late, studied his letters for any hint of inspiration or mention of something he has not bought for himself. It has been a struggle, but she hopes he will like the silver watch chain she has chosen.

With a careful eye, she reads over the instructions Mr Lancaster wrote out for her. Old Mr Lanc used to be Butler for the Earl of some place, some grand estate in Devon, and had been more than happy to talk her through the proper way to lay a table and when that had failed to sink in, he had written it all down for her.

Ruler in hand, she separates the knives and forks a little more, spreads out the glasses; three of them each for the starter, main and dessert wines {that had been a long day spent with Mr Ruffellow who bless him, is almost as deaf as a post nowadays and only half as interesting when he gets started on his stories. But he had taken her through the correct selection of wines and when she had left, list firmly in hand, had sent her a bottle of each, matched to the menu she had only mentioned to him in passing. She must make a point to visit him again in January, when he returns from visiting his grandson}.

She has just reached across the table to straighten a wonky spoon when she feels a gust of cold air against her back and Mr Carson's hand beats her to it.

"You're early." She says before he leans back, the lapel of his coat tickling her ear.

"Mr Barrow had everything in hand so His Lordship sent me off for an earlier train."

She turns around as he pulls back and finds that he has left very little space between them. It is not often that she is the one thrown off guard, but when it does happen he is most usually to blame.

He takes in the table behind her, looks back to meet her eyes. "This is amazing, Mrs Burns. I've known Footman who cannot do so good a job of a Christmas table."

She can feel her cheeks heat but refuses to give into the flattery, carefully she tucks Mr Lancaster's notes into her apron pocket. "Thank you Mr Carson, but I'm rather afraid you've ruined the surprise now."

He raises one of those impressive eyebrows. "I'm surprised, Mrs Burns, so it can't have been entirely ruined."

She huffs and with her palms against his chest she pushes him a little further back so that she can slip out from between his body and the table. "Come along, Mr Carson, let's get you out of those wet things."

She starts to leave but turns at the unexpected sound of his laughter. "Mr Carson?"

He coughs between chuckles, particularly useless attempts to stop and she waits somewhat impatiently for him to calm enough to tell her what has tickled him so much. She can't help but smile at him though; he doesn't often laugh like this, not even when telling her of Mr Barrow's latest run in with some merchant or other.

"Please excuse me Mrs Burns, but you managed to make that sound rather risqué and I realised that it wasn't the first time you'd said as much to me."

She looks at him, another blush rising to her cheeks. "Charles Carson, I wonder if you haven't been at the spirits already."

Biting his lip, something that she always imagined was more her style than his - perhaps she is having an effect on his mannerisms just as he is on her thoughts - he steps towards her. "Not at all, Mrs Burns, but I do believe that the Christmas spirit has visited me today and I find myself happier than I have been in some time."

She has to turn away then, from the soft look in his eye, the scent and heat of him so close. "In that case, Ebenezer, perhaps after you've changed, you would like to join me in the kitchen while I finish the preparations? You can entertain me with these high spirits of yours."

She slips out of the room and heads for the kitchen, resists the urge to fan herself. She has not planned for this Mr Carson; a teasing version of her friend she has only rarely glimpsed in some of his letters.

If she is not careful, she thinks reaching for the cabbage to shred, she might find herself in a lot of trouble with this Mr Carson.

-x-x-x-x-

"Thank you, Mrs Burns, for that splendid meal." She smiles as she gathers his plate, waves away his half rise to help her.

"No, you stay there. And you're welcome of course, Mr Carson. I'm sure it can't come up to the standard you're used to, but I'm glad you enjoyed it all the same."

He catches her wrist as she picks up his empty glass. "Mrs Patmore's fare is always superb of course, but this was quite the best Christmas dinner I've had since I was a lad, Mrs Burns."

He releases her arm but she does nothing to pull it away. Her heart beats wildly in her chest and for a moment she is afraid he might hear it, his ear at the right level and so close to her. "Mr Carson, if you might allow me, I have a, well it is rather an odd request, perhaps even improper."

He straightens further in his chair and for once she is unable to meet his eyes. She gives herself a shake; no, this is not who she is, if she wants something she has never let propriety or fear stand in her way. She twitches her gaze to his.

"Mrs Burns, I'm not sure-"

"Elsie, Mr Carson. I wondered if you might permit yourself to call me Elsie. When we are alone, of course, I wouldn't ask you to do so in front of others." Not that they are very often in the company of others when he visits.

She feels poised on the edge of something while she waits for his response; she has felt this way only once before, on her wedding day in the brief pause between the Vicar's words and Joe's vows. It feels as though anything might happen next but her life can only go in one of two ways.

"It would be quite improper." He says and her heart gives a sharp thump in her chest, her hand making though to press against it before she registers the plates she holds. "Quite improper, but I must confess that that is the name I have used for you in my thoughts for several months now."

She blinks, taken aback. "You have?"

"Yes…Elsie."

He smiles then and she feels her own lips curl up, her cheeks stretch. "Well then. That's fine."

She turns from the table before he can see how his wine glass shakes in her hand.

"Is there nothing else I can do, Elsie?" He asks and of course he means the clearing away of their dinner, the tidying of the dining table, but she cannot help how her mind thinks of other things as she looks back at him over her shoulder, how those images tone her voice as she answers.

"Perhaps there is Charles, but I think this is quite enough for one day."


	5. Nurse Hughes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one takes please a little under a year before the Granthams invite Nurse Hughes to share dinner with them and therefore about 5 years before the Nurse Hughes chapter in Five Names.

"It occurs to me that you could have picked lighter things to gift, Nurse Hughes." She turns around to find him hefting the canvas sack up higher on his shoulder.

"Oh do stop complaining, Mr Carson. Need I remind you _again_ why we're doing this?"

"Of course not. I remember; good will, those less fortunate than ourselves. I understand the principle, it's the practicality of it that's the problem. And I'm not complaining." He adds with a scowl.

She smiles; she has only known him a short while, but already he makes her laugh when little else can these days. She suspects he could do that for a lot of folk, if he'd a mind to. "Look, it's just down here." She pushes open a door, mentally crossing her fingers that it will be the right one {Downton Abbey still trips her up, she is used to the East Greenwich Pleasaunce and the London Hospital, where she knows the wings, the rooms. Here she can step from the makeshift hospital to a Lady's bedroom as quick as opening the wrong door. Mr Carson has been rather a Godsend in helping her around the place, she isn't sure where he finds the time, busy as they all are, but she wants to prove that his directions, his tours have made an impression on her. Unfortunately, it's rarely the kind of impression that helps her navigate around}.

She steps through to the corridor and then through one more door to the ward and she might imagine Mr Carson's sigh of relief at the sight of the modest tree, but she thinks not.

"Thank you, Mr Carson." She whispers as they reach the first bed, hoping not to disturb too many of the patients. "If you'll just pop the sack down there, my nurses and I will sort them out."

He does as asked, although he hesitates a moment, one hand against the mouth of the bag. "If you're sure, I don't mind helping with the tree?" He tips his head to the bare thing, rather forlorn looking without decoration and few branches.

She hides her smile behind Sergeant Price's notes. Looks up to meet the Butler's eye above the clip board. "Thank you, Mr Carson, but I'm sure you have much more to do and I wouldn't like to be responsible for keeping you working late, not on Christmas Eve."

She waits then, wonders if he will take the bait as he has in a few of their conversations most recently, his wit and humour coming forth. "I see, the day makes a difference; tell me, if it were just another day in December would you have any compunction in keeping me from returning to my work?"

His eyes twinkle in the dim light. So often he appears staid and serious when she observes him, around the Crawley family, around the other servants, but this is still a part of him and one she has come to enjoy immensely whenever she can.

"But as you say, Mr Carson. It is after all, Christmas. Allowances must be made that wouldn't otherwise."

She had a friend once, who she teased like this, who was happy to tease her back. {He is gone now, one of the first casualties she read of from her old village.} But that was some time ago, and innocent in a way her heart tells her this might not be if given a chance.

"Nurse Hughes!" She turns to see Nurse Crawley - or Isobel as she has been instructed to call her - helping poor Lieutenant Michaels to sit up as he coughs.

"I'm sorry Mr Carson, but I'm afraid I must get back to my own work."

She rushes past him and for a moment almost believes that she feels his fingers brush her arm. "I'm sure I'll see you soon, Nurse Hughes."

She means to ask him if they might make a formal plan of it - she has no engagements tonight but to be at the Abbey should a patient need her, and from what he has said and she has heard, she gathers he usually spends this evening by himself in his pantry - but Michaels coughs again and she is close enough this time to see the blood that spots the cloth Isobel holds to his mouth and everything but her work slips from her mind for a time.

When she eventually pulls herself away from the patients; Michaels comfortable for now, young Private Beaty once again settled and no longer hallucinating a German guard at the door, Mr Carson is long gone and Christmas Eve is firmly on the way towards the day itself.

She sends Nurse Crawley home, there's no need for them both to be here, not when Lady Sybil can just as soon be woken to help if needed.

Weaving her way amongst the beds, she checks on her charges, adjusts bandages and bed sheets until satisfied that they should all sleep for a few hours at least.

From beneath the small desk that has been placed in the room, she pulls out a modest box of decorations. Things she has collected throughout the years, in wards not quite like this one, but similar all the same.

Taking her chair with her, she stands before the tree and lifts the first decoration out; a wooden reindeer; one antler snapped off, the other a little chewed; given to her by a grateful family on only her second Christmas as a Nurse, chewed by a tiny wee thing a year or so later who wandered into Elsie's ward while she waited for her brother to be born.

She hangs it from a branch she'll see from her desk, reaches into the box for the next ornament; a tiny knitted stocking - from an old lady she used to care for before they lost her to age. She places that a little higher, steps onto the chair to reach one of the branches at the top.

The chair wobbles beneath her and her hand flies out in the vein hope that she might find something to grasp for balance. She finds a hand, large warm fingers that wrap around her own, even as another set curl around her waist. She looks down to Mr Carson, his head raised up to her for a change, his eyebrows climbing high on his forehead.

He opens his mouth and she quickly places a finger of her free hand across his lips.

"If you mean to say 'I told you so', or any variation thereof, I shall take back my gratitude for your timely rescue, Mr Carson."

His mouth remains open, his breath gusting across her fingertip but she can see the humour in his eyes, senses that what he has to say now will not be that.

With narrowed eyes that she hopes convey a warning to him, she pulls her finger away. "I only meant to say that perhaps I could place the decorations on those branches, Nurse Hughes. We can't afford for you to fall, after all. Who would take such good care of the men in your absence?"

He still has her hand in his, his other still about her waist. She wonders if he has forgotten, she certainly hasn't, can hardly focus on much else. She swallows before answering him.

"I'm sure the others would do admirably, Mr Carson. I'm hardly irreplaceable."

"Aren't you?" She doesn't know what to say to that, he seems as surprised as she that that the words were spoken. Thankfully, a particularly loud snore across the ward has Mr Carson step back, release her waist. He doesn't let go of her hand however, until he has helped her step down off of the chair.

From her desk he hands her a cup of still steaming tea, raises his own to her with a hushed _'Merry Christmas'_.

She responds in kind, taking a steadying sip of the tea while her heart slows its fluttering in her chest.

"Well then." Mr Carson announces, and had he no cup in his hand, she imagines he might even have clapped with the words. "Hand me the next decoration, Nurse Hughes, we'll soon have this tree ready for the gifts to sit beneath it."

She hides her smile behind her tea cup, busies herself with unwrapping a glass sleigh from crumpled and worn newspaper. He takes it from her carefully, dangles it by its thread from his fingers and watches it as it spins. After a moment he looks back at the tree, his eyes flitting over the two ornaments there, and then back to the box at her feet, before meeting her eyes.

"I sense that each of these has a story, Nurse Hughes."

She nods, "They do, Mr Carson. Each a little Christmas miracle, if you can believe that."

He chuckles even as a single bushy eyebrow rises sceptically. "Perhaps, if you wouldn't mind telling me a few, you might convince me."

He turns to hook the sleigh to a branch and she wonders what would happen if she laid her hand against his broad back, just for a minute.

"I think I can accommodate you, Mr Carson. Just this once. It is-"

"Christmas after all. Yes, you've said. I have to say, I find all this relaxing of your usual practices at this time of year a little worrisome."

"Oh hush, you. Do you want to hear the stories or not?"

"Of course, Nurse Hughes, please accommodate away."

She thinks of the gift she has for him locked away in her rooms in the village, a decoration of his own for the servants' tree he spoke of a few weeks ago; a small silver star.

She is sure now that she will give it to him, after all.

"Well, in spite of your cheek, Mr Carson, I shall tell you anyway. That sleigh there was given to me only last year by a farmer I treated, who had got himself into a fine mess with a rotary blade..."

They talk and laugh quietly throughout the night, and when the last decoration has been hung and the tea long gone, they kneel side-by-side and place the soldiers' gifts beneath the tree. Christmas day begins as he hands her another present and their fingers brush together across the brown paper.

Neither hears the midnight chimes from the clock in the hall, too lost in the magic of the moment and their shared memories of the Capital.

"You've not seen London until you've seen it covered in a fine layer of snow, Mr Carson."

"I'm afraid Nurse Hughes, that you're quite mistaken. Trafalgar Square lit by the summer sun, children paddling about in the fountains, that's the way London should be seen."

The chimes stop, but for quite some time more, their evening does not.


	6. Mrs Carson (née Hughes)

She put a tree up in their sitting room this morning. A small thing, branches bent at wild angles, needles falling out all over the place {she has swept the floor three times already today, she will be glad when the last of the presents are wrapped; with them stacked beneath the tree they should hide the little green piles from sight} and a crooked top she suspects will have their Angel looking a little tipsy when they place her there.

It is, she thinks, the best Christmas tree she has ever seen.

On the table beside the settee, she has cleared away his book and glasses, and spread out the colourful paper strips to make the chains for the ceiling. Little Lizzie Bates stayed with them while her parents took a trip into York for the weekend, and although some of the chains are a little twisted and there is a chance the glue was spread on more than just the paper {the carpet by the dresser for example}, neither she nor Mr Carson could have enjoyed creating the decorations half as much as they did with the curious little girl at their knees. {Lizzie Bates is the closest they'll have to a grandchild, she and Mr Carson the closest the wee thing will have to Grandparents. They perhaps spoil her more than they should when they see her.}

The chains are still to be hung, the unused paper to be put away until next year but for now the little table is full of colour and mess, a half finished glass of sweet blackcurrant juice standing somewhere in amongst it.

The fire in the grate crackles cheerfully, but low and soon they'll need another log if they want it to keep burning.

The fireplace hosts a spray of Christmas cards from family and friends; servants and the Granthams {he had looked so pleased of the one from Ladies Mary and Edith, His Lordship and Her Ladyship and the children but she had felt her heart jump when he placed it to one side, settled the card from Mrs Patmore on the mantle first. Even the one from Mr Barrow has a better position than the Grantham's, flung out at the far end and half-hidden behind a little wooden reindeer as it is}.

The air in the cottage smells of roast chicken {their dinner, eaten now and the dishes washed and cleared away} and spiced ginger {a Christmas treat she has promised him, a recipe she has learnt from Mrs Patmore; the gingerbread biscuits he never could get enough of each December}. It smells like Christmas to her, but beneath it she can pick out the pomade he puts in his hair, the after shave cologne he wears rarely, but that lingers pleasantly in a room when he does, and then it smells like _home_.

Between the cards a small clock chimes {a gift for their wedding from the Dowager - or for their retirement they can't be sure and feel it rude to ask}, ten o'clock and the downstairs rooms are empty tonight. Lizzie has left safely with her parents, her presents hidden in a case for 'Father Christmas' to deliver with the others three nights from now.

They still need to hang the paper chains, to unwrap the decorations from their boxes and place them about the tree.

There are still gifts to wrap, ribbons to tie. She has promised to take a bottle of Mrs Patmore's favourite up to her cottage tomorrow and she hasn't yet taken it from their modest collection. She must write a card for the paper boy tomorrow, he'll be by to collect payment and she wants to give him a little extra for his trouble {Mr Carson is never to know that he receives his paper before His Lordship, but she has always known how he read the headlines as he ironed it and she hated the thought that he would know these things second now to Mr Barrow, even if it will never come up}.

She'll need to give the banister a wipe down before they hang a chain from it {Mr Carson was a surprise with the paper, though she supposes she should have expected it; he is very good with his hands. They have chains enough to decorate their cottage and two more while they're at it, but it was a day filled with laughter and so she thinks it will be worth the grumbles she will hear each time Mr Carson walks into one of the chains}.

The light in his study is on; a rare occurrence as he is usually so careful to turn it off when he leaves. The door is open a little too, and if anyone were to peak inside, they would find paper and ribbon scattered over his desk, a pile of unwrapped gifts in her armchair. She has been forbidden from joining him in his study this week; where usually she sits with a book while he works on their accounts and those for the village council, this week she has taken to sitting beside the fire downstairs, a cup of tea at her elbow and a throw tucked up around her knees. She cannot wait until he has finished wrapping; it has only been a few months, but she finds she cannot concentrate as well alone as she does with his mutterings in her ear and the scrape of his pen against the books.

The pictures hung on the wall they picked up on their trip to London after they married, a honeymoon she supposes, 'though they never called it that outright. On their bedroom door he has hung two small plaques, gifts from Mr Branson and Miss Sybbie sent over from Boston.

**Mr Carson**   
_Butler_

**Mrs Carson**   
_Housekeeper_

But behind the door she isn't thinking about any of this. Not the bottle of sherry he opened for them to share that they haven't touched a drop of, not the scrap of chicken she meant to put out for the little cat she is quietly determined to coax into the cottage one day and not the list of things she must do before the week is out of they are to have a proper first Christmas together this year.

Instead, in the brief moments that she can think at all, it is of his hand against her neck, how soft his fingers feel against her skin as the slip down to her waist, brush across her stomach. How his mouth burns her, a trail of heat from her collar to her chest as he kisses her, a pattern to his actions her body is beginning to recognise, to prepare for.

How he still asks permission to touch her _there_ , as though she would ever refuse him when he must be able to tell how she wants him.

{The first time he seemed as nervous as she was, his fingers shook as he reached for her, his breath bellowed out if him like steam from a train. But they had settled together, they'd time to take, no one to hurry them along and when they lay bare beside each other and he had reached to stroke a line from her shoulder to her hip, his hand had been as steady as anything.}

The night swallows their whispers, the promises he makes to her.

But her laughter, when it comes, is loud and bright and even though only they hear her response to him, he laughs too and so it must be good.

**End.**

* * *

 

**_through the years we all will be together  
if the fates allow_ **


End file.
